White Dreams and Crimson Nightmares
by Jeremy Harper
Summary: A terrible hunger descends on Salem Center, and Peter Rasputin begins to perceive the raw, crimson truth behind a pale dream.


White Dreams and Crimson Nightmares

By 

Jeremy Harper

Note – The X-Men are the property of Marvel Comics and are used without permission.

Chapter 1

Sharyala did not care for what she had seen of Salem Center. She detested suburban areas like this, with their bland atmospheres and blander inhabitants. The never sleeping rhythms of the city suited her far better. But like all her kind, she possessed a talent for prescience, her unconscious mind dipping ahead in the river of time and fishing forth foretellings of the future – usually vague, but almost always to her advantage, if she chose to act upon them. Sometimes she did not, but the prophetic glimpse she experienced last night, after she had fed, was the most powerful and urgent she had ever felt. To ignore it would have been idiotic, so she came to this dull, bucolic town, prowling the sidewalks of its small shopping district, waiting for the future. She was a striking figure, dressed in designer clothes worth thousands, with her skin like dusky pearl, the crimson silk of her hair, and her divine figure, yet despite the glory of her appearance, no one seemed to notice her. Sharyala did not wish anyone to notice her… not yet. 

She was looking through the display window of a boutique when a flash of reflection against the glass caught her notice, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stirred. She turned to scan the street, her breath catching when she saw the man stepping out of the art supply store, bag in hand. He was almost as out of place here as she, towering over all around him. His complexion was pale, his short cut hair jet black, and at this distance Sharyala could just make out the ocean blue color of his eyes. He wore a baggy sweatshirt and leather bomber jacket against the autumn cold, along with work jeans and work boots; they did little to conceal the power of his body, the swell and cut of his physique. He adjusted his bag of purchases and started down the sidewalk. Her gaze remained locked on him, eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses as she admired the tigerish grace of his stride. Sharyala took a deep breath through her nose. Even from over thirty feet away, his comeliness and masculinity had struck her almost like a physical blow. There was substance beneath his handsomeness too, just as palpable. He was no shallow confection, like most of the attractive men she had dealings with. Just by looking at him she could tell he had lived a life few others could boast of. 

Sharyala quickly crossed the street and hurried after him. She could not let this prize escape. Licking her lips in anticipation, she fell into step with him and dismissed her subtle cloak of stealth, bathing him in the radiance of her presence. He noticed her immediately, turning his head to look down at her. Smiling, she murmured "Hello", her voice a soft, musical contralto.

The man looked down at her and his eyes widened, a flash of shock igniting in their azure depths. "White wolf…" he whispered, blanching away. Sharyala canted her head, nonplussed; she never seen such a reaction to her presence before. Every other men she wanted had desired her from the moment they saw her. But this one seemed _afraid_ of her. Her eyes narrowed as she considered him with greater scrutiny, and she revised her opinion: he wasn't afraid of her, but of something she represented. Interesting…

"I'm sorry," she said. "I did not mean to startle you." 

The man took a deep breath, visibly recomposing himself. "It is all right." His voice was a deep bass, with a slight burr of an East European accent that Sharyala found pleasing. "I was deep in my own thoughts, and was not expecting to meet anyone here. And…" he hesitated. "And you look like someone I once knew…" 

Sharyala arched a delicate eyebrow… even more interesting… "Indeed?" 

"Yes…" The man stared at her closely for a moment, then shook his head. "Forgive me, I'm being impolite." His smile was friendly, if a trifle forced. "Is there something I may help you with, miss?" 

"Sharyala," she said, extending a slim hand. He looked at it almost warily before reaching to shake it. As he did, she removed her sunglasses. At the sight of her almond-shaped, cat-like eyes, the man gasped and recoiled, but not before she grabbed his hand. 

Light enveloped Sharyala, and euphoria greater than she had ever known flooded her mind. The colors within his soul… she had never seen any so lush, so rich. And at its core, a bright white, purer than starlight. She wanted to dive into it, revel in its beauty, then consume it with decadent, deliberate slowness. _He is my match… my bright soul… I never thought I'd find mine. I thought them but legends…_ And as she bathed in his soul's radiance, the palace of his mind opened before her, and all his secrets were hers. She would sift through them later, at her leisure, but one thing attracted her attention immediately – a faint print, almost indiscernible, but still an indelible mark on his self, and Sharyala now understood his reaction to her appearance. 

"_Chyort vozmee_!" swore Peter Rasputin as he finally tore his hand free from Sharyala's grip, staggering away until he braced himself against a car parked at the curb. His hand ached, as if burned, but beneath that ache he felt remnants of a pleasure similar to one he had known before, one he did not wish to experience again, a pleasure that was a terrible obscenity that shook him to his very core, finding himself in its afterwash sickened, and very much afraid. He glared hard at the source of his fear as Sharyala rocked back on her heels, her eyes rolling up in their sockets, her body shuddering, lips aquiver. For a moment he thought she would collapse into a boneless heap, but she mastered herself, slumping for a moment, head bowed, the fall of her crimson hair concealing her face, then she looked up, parting her hair with her hands, and upon feeling the impact of the concentrated lust and hunger that burned out at him from her golden, inhuman eyes Peter nearly vomited. 

"Zsaji…" Sharyala whispered. "Now I know why you started so, when first you me." 

"What are you?" Peter demanded. 

"One of her sisters, though she never knew me… I think she was crippled, or perhaps changed, in someway. It is not unheard of, amongst our kind. Indeed, she did not know anything about herself… understand what she was capable of." She straightened rolling her shoulders sensuously. "I, however, know myself completely." She licked her lips and held out her hand. "Come with me, my darling bright soul. Let me show you wonders beyond all imagining." 

Peter shook his head. "_Nyet._" 

"Do not be obstinate… You have nothing to fear from me." Her eyes reflected inward for a moment. "Besides, do you really think that your scrawny Katya can ever bring you to the heights that my mere touch alone can take you?"

"I love her… with all my heart…" Peter's voice was strangled, and he shivered as if fever struck. 

"Love is nothing but straws on the wind," Sharyala answered contemptuously, "compared to what we will become to one another…" She took a step towards him. 

Peter fled, running blindly down the street as fast as he could, nearly bowling over several people in his fearful haste. They shouted at him, outraged, and others stared at him in wonder before going on their way. No one paid notice to Sharyala – she had drawn her mantle of stealth back around her. She watched him flee, choosing not to pursue. There were pleasures to be had in a prolonged chase… and she knew if she were patient, he would come seeking her soon enough – if only to demand answers from her, and nothing else. She would have answers for him… ones he will not rebuke. 

Very slowly and deliberately Sharyala licked the tips of the fingers that had touched her prey. "Oh my darling Piotr Nikolaievitch Rasputin," she whispered. "You will be mine completely." The chiming syllables falling from her lips in no way resembled human speech. 


End file.
